Discordant
by ofb29
Summary: Set early season 2. D'Artagnan finds himself alone as the others become tangled in their increasingly complicated lives. Despite Treville's best efforts it could be the Red Guard who inadvertently bring them back together, though at what cost? Slight AU for series timeline to fit story.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Thought I would aim for a longer story this time! Thanks in advance for reading. Will aim for regular updates. Enjoy!**

Treville stood on the balcony, enjoying the late summer sunshine that bathed his little corner of the garrison, watching the hustle and bustle of the men moving below. It was mid-afternoon, men were returning from their day duties, others leaving for afternoon shifts or patrols. He watched some of the newest recruits attempting to look favourable as they fought each other with swords. They all had some good moves, but would all require some careful tutelage to bring them up to standard he expected of them. Mathis, the seasoned musketeer currently providing tutoring could be heard even above the general noise giving his opinion on some of the less audacious moves.

A lone figure crossing the floor caught his attention; d'Artagnan, arms full of a straw bale heading towards the stables. Even in a garrison full of men, d'Artagnan seemed to cut a lonely figure. Perhaps because usually three other men, _The Inseparables_ would often be found close by. Since the young Gascon's dramatic arrival almost a year ago, it seemed to Treville a strange sight to see him alone. Of course, they all had separate duties and carried out solo missions, or missions with other musketeers but the men seemed to gravitate towards each other. Thinking back over the past few weeks, however, Treville was hard pressed to recall seeing all four of them together. He thought back to yesterday evening, the sight of d'Artagnan sat alone at what had long been considered _The Inseparables_ table, slowly eating his stew without apparent enjoyment, and trying too hard not to watch the gate.

Treville couldn't fault d'Artagnan's work. He was at the garrison at first light, was often the last to leave, and often needed to be reminded to eat. He did anything Treville ordered, and often quicker and with less whining than anyone else before carrying out other duties that certainly did not fall within his remit.

D'Artagnan had always been a hard worker though, and Treville had come to expect nothing else. From the first few weeks of joining as a recruit, d'Artagnan had worked all hours. At first Treville, and most of the other musketeers had assumed it to be the result of an overeager recruit and waited for it to naturally settled as d'Artagnan became accustomed to the ways of the musketeers.

It hadn't, though. Treville had come to expect d'Artagnan to be working before he stepped out onto the balcony at first light. He had watched d'Artagnan train long and hard, putting everything into learning all the ways of the musketeer. D'Artagnan was a natural with the horses, and the horse master had long used his experience to help train the young colts in his meagre spare time. Treville had come to expect when he started sending d'Artagnan out on short solo missions for them to be carried out quickly and efficiently and he was certainly not complaining about the hard work.

But before, d'Artagnan had had three other men to remind him about the importance of other things too. Treville had seen one or other of them physically pull d'Artagnan to sit and eat with them or drag him away in the late evening to some tavern or other. They had all played their part in training d'Artagnan, especially Athos who had taken great interest in improving d'Artagnan's already impressive sword skills, but they had all had a hand in reminding d'Artagnan to have fun also.

Whilst d'Artagnan was working just as hard now, there was no one to remind him to stop a while. To eat and to rest and to have down time. Treville would not have been a good captain if he hadn't noticed what had been going on but it frustrated him that he didn't know why. The three other men had been doing their duties, and he had no cause to complain on that front, but it was with a distraction that wasn't like them. The easy camaraderie between the three had been missing. Biting comments or stony silence, so unlike the usual banter appeared to have driven d'Artagnan away and was slowly eating away at what Treville had always considered an unbreakable bond.

He didn't think there would be an easy fix to the situation. As he watched d'Artagnan emerge from the stables leading a young grey colt, Treville resented the fact he didn't have a suitable mission to send the four on. There were no pressing deliveries, no nobility to escort. He idly wondered if locking them all into a room for 48 hours would help. It would have to be made of thick stone he mused. And he'd have to consider how to lock it without worrying about all of their superior lock picking skills. And he'd have to put in wine; he wasn't a cruel man and he didn't wish to incite homicide after all. He shook his head slightly dispelling the vision, hiding his smile by taking a sip of wine, watching d'Artagnan training the horse, getting him used to crowds and noise of fighting and musket shots by weaving in and out of the men training in the garrison, watching the horse grow sure footed under d'Artagnan's patient command on the slippery, uneven floor.

There wasn't going to be an easy solution, he considered, but he knew he had to try something. This afternoon, however, maybe he could at least encourage d'Artagnan to have a little break, help him to have a little fun, and demonstrate to the new recruits exactly what they had to attain to be a musketeer.

He waited till d'Artagnan had finished with the horse before descending the steps, calling him over. He also gestured to Mathis and the recruits he had been training. Mathis sneered slightly as he took in d'Artagnan, looking less than esteemed in sweat stained shirt and dirty breeches. Treville ignored it from long practice. The sneering of some of the older musketeers towards their fellow brothers in arms simply because of their position of birth irked him, however there were some battles he was never going to win and he'd long since learnt to pick his battles carefully. Mathis, after all, was a good musketeer, if a little long in the tooth. And for all his condescension and sneering he did a good job training the raw recruits.

'D'Artagnan you have been neglecting your sword play.' Treville started. D'Artagnan startled at the accusation, as Treville expected him to, but did manage to hold his tongue, something Treville knew 6 months ago he wouldn't have been able to do. 'Perhaps you could remedy that, and you and Mathis demonstrate some of the moves for the recruits.' Both d'Artagnan and Mathis knew that wasn't actually a suggestion, and nodded almost as one.

The pair pulled their respective swords, the metal on metal singing sharply at the movement. They settled to a traditional start, respecting the custom by saluting each other. Mathis's sneer seemed to have settled on permanently on his lips. Whilst he wasn't quite to Athos's standard, and despite his ever increasing years, Mathis was a master swordsman, and Treville could see in his confident stance that he fully expected to beat a young upstart like d'Artagnan.

Treville wasn't so sure though. He'd seen, like _The Inseparables_ , d'Artagnan's raw ability with the sword when he'd first arrived. Long hours of practice, the patient tutelage of Athos, and crossing swords with any musketeer who stood still long enough to be asked meant that the raw ability had long since been crafted into something close to an art form. He was getting perilously close to Athos's own skill, though Athos still usually came out the victor in any fight and the fights between the two were often spectacular to watch. Either Mathis had not been so enthralled as the rest of the garrison, who usually took great delight in spectating and betting on such fights, or his ego would not allow the thought that someone of d'Artagnan's breeding could better him. Either way, Treville settled back to enjoy the show, seeing other musketeers around the garrison doing the same.

The two men circled each other, both waiting, watchful, the tension in the air growing with every step. Treville was surprised when Mathis broke first, sending a swinging swipe that d'Artagnan easily defended, immediately returning with a parry of his own, forcing Mathis onto the back foot.

The fight was evenly matched, one would go on the attack, forcing their opponent back until they managed to get in a strike and the fight would turn in an instance. Treville knew he wasn't the only one who lost track of time as the fight bobbed and weaved, peaked and troughed, moving all around the courtyard of the garrison. Treville, watching d'Artagnan relax into the fight, the natural smile that lightened his face, was just giving himself a mental pat on the back when d'Artagnan decided to up the game slightly.

Letting Mathis have the attack for the moment it looked like d'Artagnan was being forced back into a corner. Even Treville let himself be lulled into the thinking, not even considering that d'Artagnan was deliberately letting himself be guided towards the horses' water trough behind him.

Without even a backward glance to check the position, d'Artagnan simply jumped up and back slightly onto the edge of the three foot trough, not even teetering on the narrow edge before he was leaping into a front twist, straight over the stunned Mathis's head, tapping him gently on the shoulder in defeat before the older musketeer could even turn. Yells of appreciation at the audacious move echoed around the garrison from the spectating musketeers and recruits, as d'Artagnan simply smiled slightly, ducking his head slightly.

D'Artagnan moved towards Mathis for the customary handshake, visibly startling at the stormy look on Mathis's face when he turned. 'You cheated!' He hissed in accusation. D'Artagnan faltered, an uncertain look on his face. 'Flashy moves only lead to one outcome and that's your fellow musketeers dead whilst you're showing off!'

D'Artagnan opened his mouth in protest but didn't get a chance, Mathis roughly knocking into him as he stalked past, disappearing into the shocked crowd. Obviously unsure and embarrassed, Treville could see the rough red colour creeping up the young Gascon's neck as he also turned, glancing at Treville before walking out keeping his head deliberately high.

Treville simply sighed.


	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you for the reviews, follows and favourites- they mean so much to me. On with the story!_

Porthos walked back into the garrison just after the sun had set, casting the sky in red streaks. His mind wondered on the old rhyme of red sky harbouring good weather and hoped it wasn't too hot for the royal parade tomorrow. Fellow musketeers stood around, filling the enclosed courtyard with chat and laughter. He automatically looked for Athos, Aramis or d'Artagnan, not seeing any of them among the milling soldiers. He'd been off delivering a missive to the south of Paris, taking most of the day as he'd had to wait for a reply and deliver it to the palace. Athos and Aramis had been on palace duty but he'd not seen them during his brief visit. D'Artagnan, as far as Porthos knew, had been on duties in the garrison. He'd been hoping to catch up with them all, ready to suggest a meal or a drink, craving some normalcy between them all after a long day alone.

He wasn't sure, exactly, why there was such discourse between them. He'd tried to put his finger on it, but couldn't. There was tension between Athos and Aramis the likes of which Porthos hadn't known before. An undercurrent that played out in biting words and cutting remarks until no one would want to stay in the two's company. Porthos had tried to find out why from Aramis but had been summarily dismissed, leaving him steaming mad and more than a little hurt.

It wasn't the only thing on his mind though. The thought that his father, a man he had never even considered could be identified, was still alive had taken up a lot of his own attention recently. He found his thoughts often pondering questions he hadn't had before, wondering on identity and why he had never been even aware of him before, and, perhaps most puzzling, how the Captain might be involved. What had really hurt though, what had really stung was the lack of interest from the two men he considered his brothers. That had cut deeper than Porthos was willing to admit out loud. D'Artagnan had listened, done his best to be supportive, but it wasn't the same and couldn't quite take the sting out of the others disinterest.

But Porthos had a lot of time to think today, more time than perhaps he was comfortable with but he'd needed it. He knew someone had to put the effort in, to try and get the four back on an even keel again. D'Artagnan was, for all their adventures and the fact that Porthos couldn't think of them as a unit without including him, still the newcomer. He could never match the history _The Inseparables_ had. Athos and Aramis didn't seem in any rush to spend time together unless ordered to. And whilst Porthos felt exhausted by the tension, he knew he was the only one who perhaps could try. Just perhaps not today, it seemed.

He was about to turn and find himself a drink and a game in a nearby tavern when he was hailed by Lori, a musketeer of almost as many years as himself. 'You missed an impressive fight.' The musketeer commented.

'Fight?'

'Treville ordered a training fight for the recruits to observe: Mathis and d'Artagnan.'

Giving the fair haired man his full attention, Porthos raised an eyebrow in surprise. Mathis was well known to hate all young musketeers, especially those who didn't come from noble backgrounds like d'Artagnan. He'd never liked Porthos, the twin outrage of a man from a poor background and one of colour too much for his narrow minded views. That was alright with Porthos, he didn't have much time for stuck up third sons of noble men either, and luckily had never really needed to work with him. He wouldn't put it past Mathis to try and put d'Artagnan in his place with some underhanded trick, knowing his honourable friend wouldn't.

'What happened?'

'Best fight I've seen for a while.' Lori started, hand waving as if to demonstrate the sword movements. 'D'Artagnan eventually beat Mathis, with one sweet move.' Lori was on his feet now, indicating the horse trough. 'Used that, jumped on it and vaulted Mathis. Mathis didn't know what had happened.' The smile on Lori's face sobered then. 'Accused him of cheating and showing off.'

Porthos shook his head in disgust, but wasn't surprised that the older man had been a sore loser. Being beaten by a young upstart like d'Artagnan would never end well. 'Sounds like a fight not to miss. Where's d'Artagnan now?'

'Oh he left soon after. Don't know where he went.'

Porthos looked around, wondering if Treville was still around but dismissed the thought; bidding goodbye, Porthos also left.

MMXV

D'Artagnan rarely let himself dwell on events of the past. It dragged at him sometimes, tried to claw him down, robbing him of his vitality and energy until all he felt capable of doing was lying on his bed and staring at the ceiling. So he didn't dwell. He forced himself to move, at times feeling like just getting out of bed was an insurmountable effort, but he did it.

Recently, everything had seemed like too much effort. Getting out of bed that morning exhausted him. Getting dressed took much longer than usual with his lethargic movements. His weapon's belt felt a hundred times heavier than usual.

The garrison, at first light, was empty and though d'Artagnan knew logically his friends would not be there so early, he couldn't help the twang of disappointment, especially as the hours of another day alone stretched before him. Entering the stables, being surrounded by the baying and snorting of horses, their familiar smell helped a little. Hearing their excitement at his arrival, the heads that came towards him as he passed slowly by greeting each horse with a pat, even smiling as several heads investigated the pockets of his jacket for treats. Horses had always calmed him, helped centre him, ground him, and now they helped displace the melancholy and give a little lift to heavy limbs.

With the return of energy, though, came the return of emotions d'Artagnan had been trying to ignore. He brushed down a dark gelding pony with perhaps more force than strictly necessary as he wondered once again what on earth had happened over the last few weeks to separate the four. He truly did not understand and that perhaps hurt the most, that there wasn't an obvious cause. After the events with Milady, watching Athos choose to banish his past, he had thought that things would settle again. They had bettered the cardinal. The four of them had triumphed once again. But it hadn't been that simple.

He had lost Constance to her husband after a fleeting moment when everything had seemed right between them. He had thought Athos would be relieved by the events with Milady but he had been more distant of late, rarely hanging out at the garrison with any of them, seeking solace, seeking to be alone. And there was something going on between he and Aramis, the two barely able to hold a civil conversation. Porthos seemed annoyed at all of them, and preoccupied with the thought that his father was out there and unknown to him. D'Artagnan had talked to the big musketeer about trying to find him, but, although he had seemed grateful at the attempt it was obvious d'Artagnan wasn't the one that Porthos wanted to discuss it with.

So d'Artagnan had found himself more and more alone these past few weeks. Not just alone. He felt lonely for the first time since the awful weeks following his father's death. The snub, intentional or otherwise, from all 3 of his closest friends hurt.

But he refused to dwell. Refused to dwell on his loneliness or the three men he called brothers suddenly appeared to be actively avoiding him. Work, his father had drilled into him from a young age, was the tonic for any ill feeling. Be it illness or injury, girl trouble or simply melancholy his father had believed, and brought up his only son to believe, that work was the answer to all. So he followed his father's advice and threw everything into work. He did his duties at the garrison. He helped care for and train the horses. He trained as much as ever, with whoever was around.

The prospect of the sword fight with Mathis yesterday had been the first real buzz of excitement he'd felt in a long time. Mathis was a master swordsman, after all and although d'Artagnan didn't get the whole importance of nobility thing and why Mathis couldn't acknowledge him without a sneer, he knew it would be a good fight none the less.

And he'd enjoyed it. Had loved matching swords with someone who was close to Athos's level. He had so missed the training fights with his mentor and being able to fight someone at such a level yesterday had been the first thing that had felt right in a long time. Up until the last move of course. Even now he burned with anger and embarrassment when he allowed his thoughts to return to Mathis's parting words. Being accused of cheating was one thing, though he knew of no rules that meant he couldn't use whatever furniture was around as a spring board. He'd been drilled long and hard by the 3 _Inseparables_ to use whatever was around to his advantage. Being accused of showing off, however, was a level of indignation that even now brought an angry red hue to his cheeks. Accused of putting his brothers in danger at showing off, though he knew there was no facts to the words, still hurt. But he threw all of these emotions into the brush, and even as the sun was just making its presence known in the east all the horses gleamed in testament to his labour.

Working with the horses always eased something in d'Artagnan. His father had recognised quickly a natural aptitude he had with the animals, and exasperated and at the end of his tether with his stubborn, hot headed teenaged son, he had placed d'Artagnan in charge of the equine flock. It had done the trick; it hadn't cured the stubbornness or really calmed the anger but giving the boy responsibility doing something he loved had certainly eased their relationship to a more manageable level. D'Artagnan enjoyed their company, and since he was a boy he often found them to be the most reliable of companions, even when he was at his loneliest.

He stepped out of the stable with his current work in progress, a 4 year old grey colt who had just come to the stables, surprised to find the garrison had come alive whilst he'd been busy with the horses. The horse master had asked him to help train the horse, making the horse ready for all the duties of a musketeers' steed. D'Artagnan was going to take him for a ride out into the streets of Paris, get him used to the crowds and the noise. First thing in the morning, just as the traders were coming out was loud but not quite as crowded, an ideal starting block.

His name was called, however, just as he was settling the saddle on the horse's back. He turned to look up at Treville, who simply gestured towards his office before turning that way, clearly expecting him to follow. D'Artagnan turned to the horse, scrubbing a hand down his nose in affection eliciting a snort from the beast. 'Guess I've got my orders. Your ride will have to wait.' He told the horse solemnly, reaching for one last scratch before returning the horse and saddle regretfully to the stables.

D'Artagnan walked into Treville's office wondering if Treville was going to have his say on the fight yesterday, surprised to find he wasn't the only musketeer who had been summoned so early. Mathis stood, stiff at attention, the snarl clear even in profile in front of the captain's desk.

'Sir.' D'Artagnan spoke mildly, settling at least an arm span away from Mathis. Whilst he was often accused of not having an ounce of self-preservation, he wasn't stupid enough to stand within striking distance.

Treville had sat back at his desk, sparing a distracted nod to the greeting. 'There has been talk of unrest on the streets, a group of bandits targeting rich merchants for their wares. Last night one was killed in the skirmish and we have been asked to investigate. I want you two out on patrol in the north east quadrant, see if there is any word making the rounds.'

D'Artagnan glanced across at his comrade, wondering his thoughts on the unexpected pairing. Mathis had made his feelings on d'Artagnan clear yesterday, and judging by the look on the rugged man's face, they hadn't improved with the new orders. Treville looked up from his writing, glancing at d'Artagnan before staring hard at Mathis. 'I will not have discourse between the musketeers. That is for the Red Guards. We work together as brothers.' Treville's tone brooked no argument, forcing a reluctant nod from Mathis. D'Artagnan quickly added his own head movement when Treville glanced once again his way. 'Good. I expect report before last bells. Dismissed.'

D'Artagnan waited for Mathis to move, following him out and down the stairs, allowing a quiet sigh at the thought of what this day now held. He let his look wander fleetingly towards the stable, wishing for the solitude and companionship of the horses, then wondered when horses had replaced his brothers as his favoured companions.

MMXV

Porthos arrived in the garrison, a few sous lighter, and a few drops of alcohol heavier than the night previous. Still, the game and alcohol had helped clear his head a little, and tightened his resolve to have a conversation with his brothers. He missed them.

He didn't expect Athos yet; it was far too early for the older musketeer. But d'Artagnan was always at the garrison at first light, and Aramis usually beat him in the mornings unless he was off with some Madame or other. He was right on one account, Aramis sat eating an apple, his weapon on the table in front of him broken down ready for cleaning. He looked up and greeted Porthos happily enough, but Porthos could see lines of tension that weren't normally present on his friend's face. 'Apple?' Aramis offered, indicating a bunch of them in the middle of the table. 'The grocer delivered them not 5 minutes ago.'

Porthos took one with a nod, settling at the table. 'Missed you last night.' He said mildly.

Aramis glanced his way, before lobbing the apple core over his shoulder towards the compost heap and picking up his weapon. 'My dear Porthos, the lovely Mademoiselle Jasper needed my attention I'm afraid.'

'Mademoiselle? That's not your normal style.' Porthos said with a leer.

He watched with interest as something that very much resembled a blush bloomed around his collar as Aramis shot him a sour look. Whatever retort was forthcoming though was interrupted by Athos plonking down unceremoniously opposite Aramis at the table. His hat was pulled low over his face despite the sun barely breaching the walls of the garrison and Porthos didn't need to be a genius to guess in whose company Athos had spent the night.

'Where's d'Artagnan?' Athos had to clear his throat before getting the words out.

Porthos shrugged, looking over at Aramis. 'He isn't here.' The sharpshooter replied.

Athos pushed his hat up just enough to regard Aramis properly. An eyebrow was raised in question.

Aramis simply shrugged in response. 'He wasn't here when I got here.' He elaborated slightly with a shrug.

Athos frowned at that. D'Artagnan was always the first of them here in the morning. They had joked enough about the boy's inability to lose his farm hours of working since joining their numbers. Before he could question further Treville walked over to them. 'I believe I can be of help. D'Artagnan is on patrol.'

'Patrol? With whom?' Aramis queried.

'Mathis.'

Porthos realised he was the only one who had heard of the fight between the pair when he was the only one to react to the statement. 'Mathis!'

Athos and Aramis looked over at Porthos in question.

'I heard our d'Artagnan had a sword fight with Mathis yesterday that didn't end on the best of terms.' Porthos explained.

'D'Artagnan lost?' Aramis queried, wondering why that would be bad; d'Artagnan wasn't usually a sore loser; after all, he had much practice at losing to Athos.

'No, D'Artagnan won. Some audacious move or other. Mathis did not respond well to being bested.'

'I can imagine.' Athos murmured though his look was studying Treville wondering his thoughts on the matter.

'I do not wish for discourse to run through the ranks of the musketeers.' Treville said, with a hard, pointed gaze at all three of them. 'So they are patrolling today. Together.'

That got all three of them sitting straighter in their seat, recognising the veiled message from Treville; he wasn't being all that subtle after all.

'You three are on palace duty.' He added before nodding sharply and walking away, leaving the silent Inseparables in his wake.

MMXV

The streets of Paris had been home to d'Artagnan long enough that he barely noticed the normal stench that purveyed even the cleanest areas, or the mass of people who travelled the streets bumping and knocking into them at every step. He knew the streets and avenues, the alleyways and courtyards better than Lupiac where he had grown up. He'd walked the streets at his loneliest hours, lost in the grief for his father. He'd walked them when he was grieving the loss of Constance. Both times. And he'd walked them in the many hours that he just couldn't sleep. Lately, when he couldn't justify being at the Garrison with the horses it had brought much needed release.

They'd crossed the city that day, visiting taverns and brothels, using their status as musketeers to either intimidate or impress some words from the willing or unwilling. They had little to show for their efforts; some conflicting gossip of a band of bored gentlemen fighters, some excited retellings (or blatant made up stories) of a supposed revenge attack, but nothing of substance, nothing to identify who might be behind the attacks. D'Artagnan looked up as they exited the last tavern to see the sun was on its descent in the west and he realised they were barely streets away from the Court of Miracles. D'Artagnan knew they shouldn't be going any closer; there were some places even a musketeer would not enter, except for perhaps Porthos.

Mathis wasn't a chatty companion, keeping his few words for some snide comments levelled at d'Artagnan's honour, his ability, and how he was only a musketeer because of the blinkered monarch they served. As that was bordering on treason d'Artagnan had done his best to not listen, allowing his eyes to move restlessly about the streets they were walking on, looking for anything out of place, or a suitable mark that might lead to some information.

Instead, he found himself watching two small boys, street children judging from the rags of clothes and no shoes, their dirty faces shining with happiness as they tossed a stone between them. It made him smile at the small act of childhood. A disgusted noise from Mathis made d'Artagnan glance at him. He was watching the children with no attempt to hide his revulsion. 'Shouldn't be allowed to roam the street.' He muttered, barely loud enough for d'Artagnan to hear.

Perhaps feeling the musketeer's eyes on them, the two children bounded over. 'Sir, do you have coin for bread?' One, clearly the older of the two bravely asked. No more than perhaps 6, his brown hair falling across his dirt streaked face, d'Artagnan couldn't help but return the smile aimed at him. His companion, who's features resembled the other child's enough that d'Artagnan guessed them to be brothers, was younger by a few years, barely reaching his brother's shoulder. He shrank back, staying in his brother's shadow, regarding them with a hard, fearful stare.

'We do not have coin.' D'Artagnan apologised to them. 'But we do have bread.'

'You would give your provisions to these…street animals?' Mathis hissed.

D'Artagnan ignored him, pulling out his provisions and handing them over. Mathis disapproval was no longer concealed. The children, though, their faces alight, stuttered out a thank you before they walked away, intent on finding somewhere quiet to enjoy their unexpected meal. 'You feed them, they will keep begging.' Mathis sniffed.

'They will beg whether I give them something or not.' D'Artagnan kept his tone mild, though inside he seethed at the words. He was distracted by shouting ahead, groaning when he saw three Red Guard stopping the children in their tracks.

D'Artagnan went to move closer, but found a hand on his shoulder halting him. 'Leave it.' Mathis ordered.

'They are accusing them of stealing.' D'Artagnan attempted to shrug off the hold.

'Leave it.' Mathis repeated.

D'Artagnan wrenched free of the hold. 'They are children, I gave them that bread. They did not steal it.'

'Maybe not now, but I'm sure they have at some point.'

'So you would just leave them to the mercy of the Red Guard?'

'It is no more than they deserve.'

D'Artagnan could only stare at him for a moment, not believing his ears.

'You are a Musketeer. This is beneath you. Let the Red Guard deal with it.' Mathis continued.

'I am not going to let the Red Guard arrest them for a crime I know they did not commit.'

'They are urchins! Street vermin! They are not worthy of our help.'

D'Artagnan stared at him, look hardening, drawing himself to his full height. 'They are more worthy than you.' He stated, not wasting another moment to cover the distance between him and the Red Guard.

'Leave them be.' He called from ten feet out.

The three Red Guard turned to him with disgust. The biggest of them, easily half a foot taller than d'Artagnan, his red hair bright in the sunlight, sneered in his direction. 'Leave, Musketeer, this is not for your concern.'

'It is when I gave them the bread you accuse them of stealing.' D'Artagnan fought to keep his tone level.

'Protecting street children now?' the oldest of the three Red Guard by a few years, on the left of the big one, laughed, making his noticeable jowls jostle up and down. 'The king is a bit childlike I suppose; good practice for a musketeer.'

'I gave them the bread, so leave them be.' D'Artagnan repeated, ignoring the jab at their Monarch and the sneer to the words.

'We have reports of street children stealing bread from the bakers. We found these 2 with bread in their hands.'

'Were you born stupid or did you lose any brain cells you possessed when you signed with the Red Guard? I gave them the bread. They did not steal it. There is no crime here.' D'Artagnan's voice was level and he silently commended himself for keeping his emotions in check against such opposition.

All three of the Red Guard edged closer, d'Artagnan automatically stepping in front of the scared children, backing himself into a smaller alleyway through which d'Artagnan knew was one of the entrances to the Court of Miracles. He wished the children would turn and run but they stood frozen on the spot with fear. 'Move!' The older one ordered.

'No.'

'Move or we'll make you.' The red head threatened. Their silent third companion looked on, his cold, sick smile showing his clear enjoyment of the show.

'The children have done nothing wrong.' D'Artagnan attempted one last time at reconciliation, even as his temper spiked and anger at the imbeciles before him sent adrenaline singing through his veins.

'They live.' The smirking third Red Guard, his smile hard and predatory, spoke with a cold dismissal, drawing his sword, his 2 companions instantly following his lead. Well, he had attempted to keep his temper, d'Artagnan reflected, as he pulled his sword in one smooth move.

The youngest, who looked barely out of toddlerhood found and clung to d'Artagnan's leg. D'Artagnan spared him a look as he parried two swords thrust in his direction. This wasn't going to work, the child gripped his leg like a limpet, fear lending the hold strength, hampering any foot movement for d'Artagnan.

D'Artagnan parried once again, reaching down in one smooth move to snag the small child and hoist him up, feeling the child grab him around the neck and hold on just as tight. It hampered his left arm but he could move his feet and as he thrust and parried with the 3 Red Guard that was perhaps the best he could expect. He could really do with Mathis help right now he considered, however a glance that way told him the other musketeer was long gone, leaving him alone with two small children to defend and three Red Guard intent on getting to them through him.

He fought with all he had. Keeping the child clamped to his side away from the swords hampered a lot of his movement; he kept the three at bay but could not get any serious blows in himself. He took the first opportunity that presented itself, thrusting his sword upwards and through the shoulder of the slimy one. The man howled with pain, effectively wiping the sick smile from his face, a rather satisfying outcome, but d'Artagnan was too slow in pulling back, and caught a glancing blow to his arm, the sting lost in the adrenaline for now. One down, but the other two were still very much fighting.

It wouldn't have been so bad if he could have reached his main gauche too; d'Artagnan would have fancied his chances against three Red Guards. But he was tiring, the weight of the small child increasing as he worked hard to keep the swords from finding a serious mark. He received a few more glances, letting the small hits land to allow him time to put up more of an attack against the more dangerous thrusts. He felt he was doing alright, could see the frustration on the Red Guard that they weren't getting closer, but d'Artagnan knew he couldn't keep it up for long. The child's weight pressed against him, his fearful cries galvanising d'Artagnan, motivating him to push harder and stronger. However, if he couldn't get in a proper blow to halt the fight he knew he would soon lose the energy to continue.

Salvation came from unexpected quarters. Not his fellow musketeers, who d'Artagnan had sorely begun wishing to make a miraculous appearance to save the day. His help came from behind, from the entrance to the Court of Miracles. Movement and yells, and d'Artagnan found himself suddenly flanked by two men, each armed with nothing more than their own fists. The fists proved effective weapons as the man on d'Artagnan's left took out the biggest of the Red Guard with a single punch.

However, the distraction proved d'Artagnan's undoing. Pausing barely a moment in appreciation of the Porthos like punch, d'Artagnan didn't notice the sneering man he had struck earlier rising to his feet to his right. Too late, he had no time to react to the large rock descended quickly towards his head, d'Artagnan's last thought before pain bloomed and unconsciousness swiftly followed was to twist enough that he didn't land on the child who still clung desperately to his neck.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Discordant Part Three**_

Treville wasn't enjoying the evening sunshine as much that day. There was tension in the city with the murder of a nobleman; and with the king hearing about it Treville had had his ear bent all day by his majesty with demands to find who was responsible. Two of the patrols had already returned for their evening meal, reporting rumour and speculation but nothing of substance. Two more were due back including d'Artagnan and Mathis, but Treville wasn't holding out much hope. He had his suspicions about a supposed "bandit attack" that had left a rich noble dead with his gold watch still in his inner pocket but had nothing to bring in front of the king.

Treville straightened as he spotted Mathis walking through the gates, face uncharacteristically blank. He looked to have survived his day in the city with d'Artagnan in one piece. Treville looked behind him to make sure the same could be said of d'Artagnan, surprised that the Gascon wasn't in sight. He wondered if the young man had stopped at a tavern on the way back but dismissed the thought immediately; d'Artagnan rarely if ever defied the orders of his captain, especially ones that simply required a report.

'Mathis.' Treville called, compelled for reasons he couldn't explain to take the stairs down to the floor. 'All is well?'

'Of course captain.' Mathis answered, though Treville noticed the normally proud man's gaze barely lifted from the floor. From a new recruit, even a new musketeer Treville would not have thought twice about it. But Mathis had too long been a soldier, Treville his captain for such shows of obsequiousness to be needed.

'D'Artagnan?' Treville asked.

For a moment Mathis looked up directly into his eye and Treville felt a warning pull deep in his stomach. 'Probably in the Chatelet by now.'

Treville had not been expecting that, though didn't let the shock show on his face. 'The Chatelet?' His voice was milder than even he expected. 'And what makes you say that?' And what the hell are you doing here looking like you had just taken an evening stroll? Treville knew better than to ask that second question aloud. Then, anyway.

'Illegal duelling with the Red Guard. That boy has a temper he should have learnt to control by now.' The customary sneer was back in place, self-righteousness straightening his posture, Mathis no longer seemed to have a problem staring him in the eye.

Treville was well aware of the hot headed nature of d'Artagnan. He also knew how much work Athos, Aramis and Porthos, and indeed d'Artagnan himself had put in to curb the temper. Not that Treville was under any illusion that d'Artagnan had become a saint, but with the others help he'd matured enough to use the anger and temper for mostly constructive uses.

'If d'Artagnan was in the Chatelet, I would have heard by now. There would be no end of guards ready to gossip.' Treville's tone of voice was still mild, though the volume had risen enough to halt some of the nearest activity around the garrison.

'What's this about d'Artagnan?'

'Chatelet did he say?'

'Wouldn't surprise me, always had a temper that one.'

'Chatelet? No way. D'Artagnan would never let a Red Guard defeat him.'

Treville heard the quiet, and not so quiet comments do the rounds of the garrison as the word spread quickly. He wasn't surprised when a shadow settled at his shoulder. 'D'Artagnan would not duel a Red Guard without reason.' Athos's voice was completely reasonable, logical even, but a glance told Treville his eyes were cold as ice and boring directly into Mathis.

Mathis stepped towards Athos, forcing the shorter musketeer to look up at him from under his hat. 'Perhaps you do not know your boy as well as you thought.' Mathis commented quietly. 'Hardly seen you around recently after all. Wife trouble wasn't it?'

If Mathis thought he would provoke Athos, he was going the right way about it. However, Treville knew his lieutenant, and knew he would let the words merely wash over him at that moment. Later, they would maybe come back, be dwelt on in the company of some alcohol, but now Treville knew that Athos would not let Mathis have the pleasure of seeing his temper. Who, after all, had drilled d'Artagnan the most of the importance of head over heart?

'I know him.' Athos's voice was nothing but mild. 'Better than you. And I know that d'Artagnan does not duel without reason. So what was it? What happened?'

Mathis looked away from Athos to Treville, dismissing the man by a mere turn of his head. Treville simply lifted an eyebrow in question. 'What happened?' He repeated letting command edge into his voice.

'D'Artagnan tried to duel 3 Red Guards.' Treville liked succinct reports but that was certainly lacking a few vital details.

'For what reason?'

'You know the Red Guard; they started their usual taunting, and d'Artagnan reacted as everyone could predict.' Treville didn't look at Athos but guessed his face was as blank as his.

'And how did it finish?'

The question seemed to stump Mathis for a moment, before his look hardened, and he drew himself up to his full height. 'I did not wait to find out; I was not about to be arrested for a fight that was not my own.'

'You walked away.' Treville's voice was low, and flat, and hard enough that even Mathis gulped slightly in fear at the tone.

But he wouldn't be deterred for long. 'You would insist me stay and participate in an illegal activity?' Mathis's own voice was dangerously low as well, and Treville knew he was in a corner. He couldn't be heard to condone any illegal activity, especially not violence against another regiment. Already though he could hear the low murmuring of disapproval that met Mathis's words.

'Where, exactly, did this duel take place?' Athos asked, trying to get the conversation back on track.

For a moment Treville thought Mathis would ignore Athos, but a glance at Treville seemed to convince him to answer. 'The north end of Rue Lepic.'

Treville let an eyebrow rise in surprise at that information. 'You were over at the north end of Rue Lepic?' Athos asked. 'Why?'

Mathis managed a withering look despite the continued mutterings even he had to be aware of. 'We were on patrol.'

'On the boundary of the Court of Miracles?'

'Where better to look for bandits attacking nobility?'

'That is not the north east quadrant.' Treville pointed out before Athos could answer. The musketeers all knew better than to patrol just as a pair anywhere near the court, which had its own system of rules and ideas of justice that certainly were not above harming soldiers of the king.

'We expanded slightly.' Mathis said with an ill-mannered shrug.

Treville knew he wasn't going to get anymore from Mathis. Judging by the murmurs making the rounds around the garrison, his fellow musketeers would be having their say on Mathis's actions; not as satisfactory as being able to voice what was on his mind, but sometimes being captain called for such indirect justice. He turned instead, effectively dismissing Mathis with a cold shoulder. 'Athos, you, Porthos and Aramis go to Rue Lepic, see what you can find. I will go to the Chatelet, see if there is any news. Report back as soon as you are able.'

Athos didn't so much as look back at Mathis as he strode across the garrison, intent on collecting his brothers to go and find their missing friend. A duel with the Red Guard. If that was true, Athos knew there was more to the story than a few simple insults. He tried to dispel the first tendrils of guilt that were trying to take root that d'Artagnan had been paired with someone like Mathis in the first place; that the distance Athos had been cultivating out of perceived need had, however unintentionally, led to this.

MMXV

Rue Lepic was long and straight, mostly packed out residential buildings, generations of families living in one or two small rooms, built one on top of the next. They were outside of the Court, but the poverty was just as abject, the smell of many people in close quarters pungent. Even as the evening light faded children ran around screaming and playing, the many adults present handing out clips to ears with a liberal hand. Chickens, dogs, even a few cats and more than a few rats added to the melee. The many taverns enticing what few coin there was with the promise of cheap alcohol were doing a roaring trade as the light faded.

There was no obvious sign of any disturbances although Athos saw more than a few pick pockets and thieves at work, even in this poor crowd. Athos met up with Aramis and Porthos outside the last tavern, all of them shaking their head. 'Nobody saw anything.' Aramis said, taking off his hat and twirling it in his hand.

'Nobody heard anything.' Porthos agreed, reaching over in an attempt to steal the feather from Aramis's hat. Aramis slapped his hand away without looking.

'Nobody would tell us anyway.' Athos added grimly, giving them a look at their antics. 'Let's hope Treville has more luck.'

Treville carried the good news that no musketeer had been arrested, although the Cardinal had appeared very interested in why Treville would even be quizzing the guard over such a matter. Treville had had to make quick excuses and leave lest he got too suspicious. Treville sat at his desk, face impassive as Athos gave his report, the concern growing about the implications of a missing musketeer. Looking from Athos to Aramis and Porthos Treville noted the concern and anger mirrored in their faces, and spared a thought that at least _The Inseparables_ were united once again in their concern for d'Artagnan's whereabouts. He just hoped that the price of such union was not at the expense of the younger musketeer's life.

'We should question Mathis more.' Aramis said.

Treville went to disagree but Athos got in first. 'Mathis doesn't know what happened.'

Treville glanced at him, an eyebrow rising in question. 'He was there.' He pointed out.

'At the beginning. Whatever happened, and I don't doubt that the Red Guard were involved'

'Mathis walked away.' Treville finished Athos's thought for him.

'I doubt he stayed long enough to see the first strike.' Athos said with a hint of bitterness.

'Mathis is a coward.' Porthos growled. Treville didn't disagree. Porthos's obvious anger was only growing, although Treville managed to quell it with a sharp look. Anger and rushing off for retribution was not going to help d'Artagnan.

'If d'Artagnan hasn't been dragged to the Chatelet, and he certainly hadn't come back to the Garrison, where is he?' Aramis was the only one to brave the question aloud what all of them were wondering.

'He's not dead.' The statement came out of nowhere, and although none of them would say it, they were all surprised to hear the defiant statement from Athos. None of them disagreed. They all carried the same hope, although with varying degrees of the confidence that Athos had infused his words with. Athos had to be confident, though. The other option was unthinkable.

The ceiling was a blur of dull colours. D'Artagnan lay contemplating it, watching the colours swirl and blend, unable to comprehend what was real, what was his imagination, just passively watching the show.

He hadn't quite got round to wondering where he was. Contemplating the rainbow on the ceiling was enough for his mind at the moment, questions of why or where didn't even occur to him right now.

If he'd been questioned he might have mentioned the merciless throbbing in his head, especially between his right eyeball and ear. He might have started to wonder why his right hand was also hurting; not enough to distract from the pain in his head but enough to be a subtle annoyance still. He could have wondered why his arm stung. Mostly he would have wondered about the ceiling, his limited capability at that moment unable to contemplate anything more. Although he welcomed the pull of unconsciousness for the relief from the pain it brought, let the darkness claim his vision without protest.

'Anything?'

The older lady sat back on her heels, glanced at the man above him. 'He is in and out of sleep, although he is far from conscious.'

The man, a third of her age and about half her size bent down to examine the stitches on the young man's head. 'These are neat.' The patronising tone washed over the woman, used to it by now from the young upstarts around the court.

'It will scar.' The cut was jagged, and the woman had done her best with her limited if well practiced skills to repair the damage. It had stopped the copious bleeding that always amounted from head wounds, though the wound still looked angry. The cut on his arm had been much easier to stitch purely because it was long and straight.

'A musketeer.' The man commentated, taking a seat and settling in much the woman's annoyance. 'What was he doing so close to here?'

The woman did not answer. She did not spare energy wondering on the whys and wherefores of such things. She had spent her life within the walls of safety offered to people like her by the so called Court of Miracles. Such questions were for those with grandiose ideas about their stations in life. Elise knew her station. She was coming up to her 7th decade, a relatively long life for a woman abandoned as a baby on the streets, meant to die at birth. Instead she would die safe in the Court, surrounded by her family though not one of them was from her blood.

How a musketeer had come to be within the confines was unnerving, she had to admit. But Flea had asked her to use her sewing skills on the young man's injuries, and that was what she had done.

Like everyone in the court she was fearful of soldiers, from whatever regiment they were from. In her experience they were all the same; before the Court of Miracles had become such a fortress, the soldiers were here regularly for the easy win of beating on an already broken people. It had improved with the security, to the point where soldiers rarely dared try and breach the outer walls, and never with less than a whole company as backing. Distrustful of the man lying unconscious before her, she was ready to leave as soon as she was done, but instead had been distracted by the young man's eyes opening. He had simply stared at the ceiling as if it was the most interesting of tableau to behold. He hadn't reacted when she'd called to him, or placed her hand on his arm, just continued to stare at the ceiling for many minutes until his eyes had slid shut once again.

'You heard what he did.' Duvas asked, excited at the thought of the story. Elise refrained from rolling her eyes; the man gossiped like one of the young washer women.

'If not I'm sure you will tell me.' Elise pointed out dryly.

'Stepped in front of the Red Guard he did. Protected 2 of our children. Fought them off, with a little help, of course.'

'Of course.' Elise echoed.

She finally looked up at Duvas when he paused in contemplation, his scarred mouth twisted slightly in thought. 'Why would a musketeer do that? Why would a musketeer save our children?'

That was of course, the big question. Elise had initially been sceptical at the idea of a musketeer protecting their own. But as she had tended his wounds she couldn't dismiss the evidence of defence marks on his arm, the longer cut she had stitched, shallow cuts where light hits had landed all down the right arm, nothing at all on the left. Elise tried hard not to be impressed, but allowed herself to think that it was nice that not all soldiers of the king were the same, that not all soldiers automatically assumed the worse and attacked them.

'You want, I will sit with the musketeer.' The man offered into the silence, looking with something like awe at the young man. He was too young to remember the bad old days, though he would have grown up with the stories, and the fear that passed through the generations. He would have been taught from a young age to avoid anyone in uniform who patrolled the streets of Paris. But curiosity at the strange event was bound to cause gossip for a while and to be able to say he had sat in the same company as the man in question would gift Duvas more than a few drinks over the next few nights.

Elise was about to agree, wanting nothing more than to get back to her jobs and errands, but looking over at the young musketeer made her pause, reconsider. Something stirred in her, an empathy, perhaps for an injured young man, a musketeer who would wake in the company of people taught to hate him, or perhaps worse to the many questions that would pour from Duvas's lips. 'That's alright, Duvas. You get on now, go do your evening jobs.'

The man looked about to argue but a sharp look got him to his feet, sent him away with not another word. Elise settled back to watch over the musketeer and enjoy the relative quiet.

Night was heading towards its natural conclusion when Elise was startled from her rest by the stirrings of the young man. She'd struggled to replace the leather jacket she had earlier been forced to remove from the young man, when the cool night air washed over them both. She'd managed to clean the majority of the blood from the worn leather, but could do nothing with the slash marks up the right arm. She had also cleaned the majority of the blood from his face and hair, making the vicious wound stand out sharply against olive skin. The lump had not swollen more, though it had yet to recede much either.

Dull brown eyes met hers for the first time, before taking in the room, uncomprehending of what they were viewing. She watched as he licked dried lips, his eyes returning to her, mouth open as if to speak though no sound came forth. He frowned, winced as the movement pulled on the wound, and lifted his damaged right hand as if to seek the cause. Moving the hand proved too much, as the wince turned into a quiet moan, and the hand dropped down, useless for the moment. Elise did not know how to do anything for the broken hand so had simply left it.

A clearing of the throat, an aborted cough, and the man finally found a semblance of his voice. His question took Elise by surprise though. 'The children?' Elise didn't know the man, but could surmise barely held agitation as he looked around once more, his look sharpening as he searched the shadows. Maybe she shouldn't have been surprised; from what she had heard, the musketeer had placed himself bodily before the 2 children confronted by the Red Guard, had literally fought with the younger child, who was known simply as Paul at the Court, in his arms, before he'd been unceremoniously knocked unconscious.

'They are safe.' Elise was quick to reassure.

'The Red Guard.' The man paused, gulped, panted through pain and Elise guessed quite the dizzy spell judging from the clenched closed eyes.

'They did not get to them.' Elise lay a hand on his arm; uncomfortable with touch normally, she sought to ground and reassure the young stranger before her. Her hold tightened as the young man's eyes snapped open again, and he moved as if to roll to his side. 'Stay still, you were hurt.'

He did still though Elise could feel him still tense under her hand. 'You were knocked unconscious.' She carried on when she had a semblance of his attention. 'You landed on your sword hand, I think it is broken. You must lay still.'

'I have to go.' The young man argued immediately, throwing off the old woman's hold enough to lever himself into a seated position. Once there though, nature forced him to still, slumped against the wall, as his face went pale and his breath stuttered, and he panted through a wave of pain or nausea or both. Elise, grateful that the pallet was at ground level so at least he had nowhere to fall, moved to the side, not wanting to be in line if he did vomit, though the man seemed to fight it down through sheer force of will.

Once it became clear to the young man that standing at the moment would be a bad idea, Elise shifted closer again. 'What's your name?' She asked, tenderly wiping the sweat off his face the movement had caused.

Brown eyes once again contemplated her, though he seemed to be trying to remember himself. 'D'Artagnan.' He finally answered, voice weak and thin.

'D'Artagnan. I'm Elise.' She told him, though she doubted his ability to comprehend or remember at that moment.

Eyes shuttered closed again, and Elise braced herself for the inevitable slide back to lying, not wanting him to aggravate his injuries. But the young man ruthlessly forced them open again, blinking owlishly even in the half-light offered by a distant torch, look stuttering around his surroundings. 'Where are we?' The question, which Elise thought would have been uppermost in the man's mind, sounded like an afterthought.

'The court.'

MMXV

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	4. Chapter 4

' _Where are we?' The question, which Elise thought would have been uppermost in the man's mind, sounded like an afterthought._

' _The court.'_

The voice took Elise by surprise though the young man's look simply flickered to the door. Elise moved to get to her feet at the sudden presence of her queen, though Flea was quick to impatiently wave away such formalities. The blond woman came further into the small room, moving to crouch in front of the musketeer. She looked at the nasty head wound, clucking her tongue in sympathy as d'Artagnan sat impassive, Elise catching a flicker of something like recognition on Flea's face. 'That's going to leave quite the scar.'

D'Artagnan didn't look like he could summon the energy to care at that moment, his look never wavering from the new arrival. 'A Musketeer, alone in the Court.' The words were said with some amount of condensation, and Elise found herself uncharacteristically offended at the words on behalf of the man. She needn't have worried, Flea's look and head dropping in a semblance of a bow. 'I thank you.' The tone had changed, was soft and sincere. 'The Court thanks you, for saving those children.'

D'Artagnan's look darted with some discomfort to the entrance Flea had come through, and he seemed to contemplate then dismiss the idea of escape. 'We are in your debt, musketeer.' Flea added, hand coming up to grasp his uninjured arm, just under the leather pauldron clasped to his shoulder.

'You owe me nothing.' D'Artagnan finally spoke, look bouncing once again to Flea though he seemed unable to hold it. 'I did what anyone would do.'

Flea laughed incredulously, and even Elise smiled revealing gums dotted with a few blackened teeth. 'No one would stand up for the Court.' Flea said. She regarded d'Artagnan, and Elise caught the look of recognition again, stronger this time.

'I know you.' Flea sounded like she was trying to remember exactly where from. 'You were one of the men who came to rescue Porthos.' She finally remembered.

D'Artagnan's look had snapped to hers at the mention of Porthos's name, and he nodded slightly.

'Seems we were already in your debt. Porthos is well?'

D'Artagnan cleared his throat, wincing slightly before he answered. 'Yes.'

'Does he know you're here?'

'I doubt it.' There was a bitterness to the tone that made both woman wonder at the story behind it.

'Musketeers do not usually patrol alone. Or around here.' Flea said, settling herself more comfortably on the floor.

'Wasn't alone.' D'Artagnan answered, his head rolling back against the wall as if it was too heavy for him to hold on his own. His eyes were on Flea's though, and he seemed increasingly aware.

'You were with Porthos? Or his friends?' Flea sounded unconvinced; she knew Porthos would never walk away from a confrontation, and doubted he'd be friends with anyone who did.

'No.' bitterness and something more in the short answer, though he held back from saying more. Loyalty to the musketeers, Flea assumed, even if he had been left by a coward. She watched as d'Artagnan straightened up again, a determined look on his face. 'I need to get back.'

Flea held back the laughter though a smile still tugged at the corners of her mouth. 'If you could see the state of you, you would know you are going nowhere.'

'Have to.' D'Artagnan argued, though his head rested against the wall again for a moment. 'Have to report.'

'Musketeer, you would never make it out of this room.'

Flea watched her words get taken as a threat, the immediate straightening of the body, the alertness that adrenaline brought to his look. She was reminded of the soldier the injuries were doing their best to hide. 'Settle down.' She added, hand on his shoulder to keep him in place. 'I doubt you could stand, let alone put one foot in front of another.'

Stubbornness settled on the young man's face, and Flea had no doubt that he would stand and walk simply because he had been told he couldn't. She shared a wry grin with Elise before focusing back on the musketeer. 'You should at least have a drink first.' She tried. The thought of drink did not appear to settle well with the young man, his head turning away as he paled just at the thought. Flea shared an eye roll this time with Elise. Young men; too stubborn to be told what to do even when they could not stomach the mere thought of water.

Her thoughts were interrupted by one of her runners ducking his head through the curtain at the door, obviously looking for her. 'Yes Andre?' Flea asked as the young man's look flew in confusion between her and the musketeer sat attempting to not pass out against the wall.

Andre brought his attention back to Flea with some reluctance, obviously scrambling to remember what had been his mission before his thoughts had been side swiped by viewing the much rumoured musketeer in person. 'A word?'

Flea stood up and joined him at the door. 'Rumours abound that the Red Guard are going to avenge their fallen comrade.' The man said quickly.

'Really?' As soon as Flea had heard what had happened, and that one of the Red Guard had been killed in the fight, she knew to expect retribution. Red Guard would never leave the death of one of their own unchallenged.

'They are gathering reinforcements.' Andre continued.

Flea resisted rolling her eyes, though it was close. The Court of Miracles was too big for the whole regiment of Red Guard to hope to overrun. But they could do damage, lasting damage to her people, to their fragile life and home and sense of security. She would not stand quietly by while someone threatened her and her own. 'Ready the guard.' Flea commanded. 'Every entrance and exit covered. Make sure everyone is armed and ready.'

She turned to the room after Andre left with his orders, about to tell d'Artagnan that once they had dealt with the pesky Red Guard she would send word for Porthos to come and collect him, surprised to find him stood behind her. His face was a sheen of sweat, any colour leached from his cheeks by the ascent upwards, and Flea half wondered that a stiff wind looked like it could down him.

'Where are you going?'

'The Red Guard are coming.' He stated. Elise hovered at his elbow, and Flea might have laughed at the idea that the old woman with her arthritic knees had a hope of stopping the musketeer who towered over her falling should his legs fail him.

'So?'

'They are coming because of me.' D'Artagnan said.

'Hardly.' Flea said with an unladylike snort. 'They would come with any excuse.'

D'Artagnan stepped towards her hesitantly, as if testing that his legs would hold him up. Flea was as unsure as he looked. 'I stepped into the fight. They would not be coming otherwise.'

'No they would have killed 2 of our children and claimed justice had been served.' Flea said with a bitterness of her own. 'You did not kill a Red Guard.' She added, seeing his eyes widen slightly at the words, guessed that event had been after he'd been knocked unconscious. 'This is our fight.'

'No. It is my fight too.'

'You can barely stand!' Flea gestured impatiently at him.

A stubbornness that _The Inseparables_ would instantly recognise straightened d'Artagnan's back, firmed up his trembling legs, and put a stony look on his face. 'I can fight.' He corrected. Flea was caught between awe at the sudden change and the urge to roll her eyes at such headstrong behaviour.

'You won't be able to hold a sword.' Momentarily derailed, d'Artagnan lifted his painful, swollen right hand up to inspect it for a moment, as if he had only just become aware of it.

Brown eyes locked with hers again, and Flea knew logical argument would not sway him. 'I have another hand.' He even lifted it, flexed it, in case she doubted him.

She knew then he was going to fight whatever she said. He was too stubborn not to despite the injuries. 'Fine. But it's barely dawn and everyone knows the Red Guard do not surface till late. Rest till then.'

She thought he would fight her at that too, and that was certainly the immediate reaction. Then he seemed to reassess the situation and his shoulders slumped. He glared at her for a moment, suddenly looking older, his direct look making a drop of fear work its way up her spine despite the injuries. 'You will get me before they come.' The threat, when aimed at her, had her agreeing quickly.

Dawn over the garrison brought relief from a long and mostly sleepless night. Spies at the Chatelet confirmed no musketeer had turned up during the night. A similar runner despatched to the morgues brought the more welcome news that no body had turned up either.

Athos, Aramis and Porthos sat at their table, contemplating the news that the new day had brought, wondering what on earth could have come of d'Artagnan. They had already discussed their new plan of action for that day. Porthos would try and get any news from the Court, the only musketeer who had a hope of doing so. Athos and Aramis were going to try the taverns again, though neither held out much hope of any more information than they had found yesterday. They had to do something, though.

Treville was finishing a morning meeting at the palace, inevitably delayed as the king was not known to be a lover of early mornings. He had asked for them to wait his return before they left that morning, though none of them were even pretending to do so patiently. As soon as Treville appeared on horseback at the gate, they were on their feet, moving towards him before he had a chance to dismount. He glared at them, understanding of their impatience, but not about to let such behaviour go.

'The Red Guard have not brought a complaint against a musketeer to the Cardinal.' He told them after his feet were on the ground and the stable boy had taken the horses' reigns.

It was small comfort, but comfort none the less.

'There are rumours, though, around court, that a Red Guard was killed by members of the Court of Miracles.' Treville caught Athos's eye and saw the calculating look the news had brought. 'A division from amongst the company are reported to be gathering to confront the rogue element.'

'They need more than a single division to get into the Court.' Porthos scoffed.

'The Cardinal of course is turning a blind eye to such matters.' Treville carried on.

'Mathis reports d'Artagnan fought with the Red Guard just outside of the Court of Miracles. The Red Guard report a death at the hands of members of the Court.' Aramis sounded dubious that 2 such events could be unrelated.

'If the Red Guard had killed d'Artagnan they would be unable to keep it quiet.' Treville added quietly.

There was one option that no one was willing to say aloud, perhaps the most obvious conclusion. If members of the Court had killed a Red Guard, what was to say they had stopped there? There was no love lost between the various regiments of His Majesty and the Court though Flea did try and keep obvious violence between the Court and the musketeers to a minimum when she could. The musketeers in their turn left the Court mostly to their selves. The only glimmer of hope was the lack of a body. The Court had no reason to keep such a thing after all.

'Perhaps a small company of Musketeers should be patrolling; after all rumours of attacks against noblemen cannot be ignored. And we wouldn't want the Red Guard to be hurt when they underestimate the court.' Treville said aloud.

Aramis inclined his head slightly, 'Oh no, we wouldn't want the Red Guard to suffer unnecessarily.' He agreed with a wicked look in his eye.

Athos's look was almost amused. 'Is that a request, sir, or an order?'

'I am your captain, Athos. Everything is an order.' Treville was rewarded with a twitch of the lips, a half smile from the lieutenant at his flippant words.

Aramis smiled. Porthos, looking slightly confused, bent his head slightly in Aramis's direction to whisper in his ear. 'We're going to help the Red Guard?'

Aramis turned slightly, enough so that Porthos could hear the whispered words and glimpse the wicked grin that wasn't hidden on Aramis's face. 'I wouldn't call it help.'

Porthos muttered about people not speaking plain as he straightened back up to his full height. He was looking forward to going back to the Court, though.

MMXV

D'Artagnan stood, twisting the sword in his left hand around and around, getting used to the feel and swing of the long blade in the unfamiliar hand. It felt wrong, but even a slight flexion of his right hand told him he had little choice.

He was alone in the room he'd woken up in earlier, the colourful sheets of material hanging from the ceiling swaying in the breeze lending a gaudy touch to the run down room. Elise had gone with Flea earlier, leaving the musketeer alone to rest. D'Artagnan had tried to settle down but sleep remained elusive. A headache drummed relentlessly through his skull, pulsing painfully behind his right eye, worse with the sun making its presence felt through the dirty sheets hung at the window. His hand was throbbing, though d'Artagnan found it calmed slightly when he tucked it into the leather jacket he wore, immobilising it between leather and his body slightly. All in all, d'Artagnan guessed that he wasn't looking his best at that moment. His legs were steady, though, where he stood. He'd managed water and a bit of bread that someone had brought for him earlier and to his surprise instead of vomiting it all straight back up it had settled his stomach slightly. He could mostly see in single vision now, and for the moment the ground was as stable as it usually was. It was the best he could hope for d'Artagnan thought somewhat grimly.

He was listening closely as he swung the sword. There was a charged atmosphere around this place. He'd entered the Court only the once before, to find Porthos and to halt an explosion. He hadn't seen much of the court then though he guessed he was somewhere in the heart of it at the moment. Footsteps regularly paraded up and down outside his room. Whispers reached his ears as they passed, commenting on a musketeer in the court, the upcoming advance of the much loathed, and feared, Red Guard, making him feel guilt.

He knew he had only inadvertently brought the Red Guard to the Court, and wasn't the one who had killed one of the Guards though it had been done in his defence. He had been merely interceding for the sake of 2 children, but still he'd begun the chain of events that had led the Red Guard to the door of the Court. And d'Artagnan wasn't ready to leave the Court to the mercy and injustice of the Red Guard whilst he could stand.

He had been wondering at the best course of events, trying to think tactics rather than heading straight to bloodshed. It wasn't easy, the unrelenting pain drove every thought, every lesson he had learnt as a musketeer from his head.

Footsteps approached and slowed, Flea ducking her head in the room. If she was surprised to find him on his feet swinging a sword she didn't comment, just quirked an eyebrow at him, giving him a cursory look over as she stepped into the room. What she saw didn't enthuse her with much confidence at first. The bruising was coming out in force on the right temple, spreading down to the eye that didn't appear to be able to open more than half way. The mangled right hand was hidden away in the depths of the jacket and though the sword moved fluidly through the air in his left hand, it limited his movement.

Flea, though, knew better than to rely on first look. Looking closer, Flea saw a little more colour in his cheeks than before. He didn't look likely to collapse in the next few minutes (she wasn't ready to bet beyond that) and more importantly he at least had a sword in hand. Flea loved her people, trusted them to fight for what little they owned in their small slice of Paris, but having a trained (if ropy looking) musketeer on their side could only help. Even if she didn't fully understand his reasoning.

D'Artagnan looked up and caught her eye. 'Do you know anything about bandits killing a rich merchant?'

The seeming non-sequitur had Flea scrambling to keep up. 'You talk of the noblemen killed a few nights back.' She finally guessed.

D'Artagnan hadn't known it was a nobleman, but he nodded anyway, understanding now why the Musketeers had been called to investigate. Flea's sudden broad grin made him start slightly. 'Family, you know, is not everything. I hear he cut his son off from his inheritance.'

D'Artagnan nodded, filling away that information. He didn't know why he was bothering, the likelihood of walking away with his life intact was far from certain. But d'Artagnan's only reason for being in the vicinity of the court was the investigation into a murder and d'Artagnan had been curious.

'Our runners have spotted a group of guards heading this way. About ten minutes out.' Flea said quietly, getting back to her original reason for coming here.

'What's your plan?' D'Artagnan asked.

'The older woman, children, anyone else who chooses have moved to the centre.' Flea told him. 'Everyone else is ready at the various entrances though we think they will enter via Rue Lepic.'

'Let me speak to them first.' D'Artagnan said.

'What? No!'

'Let me speak first.' D'Artagnan steamrolled over her protests, 'and try to avoid a confrontation all together.' Flea still looked mutinous but d'Artagnan didn't give her a chance to interrupt again. 'It is unlikely they will converse, but we have to try. Flea! I have no doubt that the Court will best a small group of Red Guard, however, there will be blood shed on both sides. I doubt the Cardinal is bothered at this point but you allow a killing of a company of Red Guard and you will have the Cardinal coming to fight instead. And he does not fight fair.'

Flea let a host of arguments fly through her thoughts, trying to settle them. Because if there was a way to walk away from the Red Guard with no more violence, for the sake of her people (though they were unlikely to thank her for it) she had to try. She finally nodded her agreement, d'Artagnan meeting her look, both defiant, both ready to fight for what they believed was right.


	5. Chapter 5

_Last part people. Thank you for sticking with it! Longer AN at the end_

It was a five minute walk to the exit on to Rue Lepic. D'Artagnan didn't make any effort to remember the maze of roads and alleyways he followed Flea and 2 of her body guards down. It would take too much concentration, when really just putting one foot in front of the other was currently taking far more of it than normal. Flea kept looking back over her shoulder at him, a concerned look on her face. D'Artagnan mostly ignored her, keeping his head high and his back straight and his feet moving forward. He was fine. And if he kept saying that, then maybe his body would believe it too.

The sun was bright in the cloudless sky, and even in the shaded alleyway d'Artagnan winced and squinted against the harshness, not helped by the noise of many people in close quarters yelling, the noise reverberating around the close quarters. His headache hadn't let up but now it drummed at an altogether different rhythm, and the nausea returned with a start. He forced down a swallow, ignored the headache as best he could and forced his mind to his training. The alleyway leading from Rue Lepic to the Court of Miracles was enclosed on both sides by high, rundown buildings; no chance of a side ambush anyway. The alleyway was small and tight, a natural bottleneck after the wide open road of Rue Lepic. That could work in their favour if talking did nothing, and they could force the Red Guard into following them down here. It could also work against them, though, limiting their movement and not allowing them to fight at all.

Walking down the alleyway d'Artagnan became increasingly aware of being the solitary man in uniform. He was used to being in a regiment, standing shoulder to shoulder with his comrades, having back up in a fight, of having musketeers (okay, mostly any or all of _The Inseparables_ ) by his side.

Now he was alone.

Oh, he had the men of the Court of course. They hung from windows and door frames, talking and shouting and banging metal on metal in the excitement of a fight with the Red Guard. Fear here was laughed at, excitement and adrenaline combined to make the small alleyway sound like a tavern and it wasn't helping d'Artagnan's headache.

But they weren't trained. They were a mob after the excitement of a fight, a chance to put one over the Red Guard and d'Artagnan feared them, feared what they would do as much as the Red Guard. He was a musketeer and not one of them. He might be viewed as some sort of hero at the moment for saving 2 of their children, but he knew what would happen if talking to the Red Guard went wrong, if they weren't happy with anything he did. The mob would turn on him just as quickly. And he doubted Flea would be able to prevent an attack.

He blanked the thoughts. Forced them away. They weren't useful at this moment. Every thought path seemed to lead to the high chance of his death. They weren't going to help him face the Red Guard, to channel Athos's negotiating skills and try and get everyone away with limited bloodshed. He wasn't holding out much hope, but he had to try. And if they didn't talk, he was prepared to fight, knowing full well the likely ending of such an event. He had to fight. After all, he'd never walked away before and this didn't seem like the time to start.

Flea glanced at him once more, before pushing back the sheeting that masked the entrance to Rue Lepic, stepping through. D'Artagnan couldn't stop the grimace and hiss of pain as the bright sunshine hit like daggers to the back of his eyeballs, and the ground dipped and settled below his feet. He straightened quickly though, knowing he didn't have time to appear weak, not in front of Flea, not in front of the Court, and especially not in front of any approaching Red Guard. His head, however, didn't appreciate the reasoning, and the ground felt increasingly unsteady beneath his feet, a feeling of vertigo that made his stomach dip. He ignored it as best he could, keeping a view of the nearby trees lining the wide avenue momentarily to try and settle the dizziness (and his stomach) before looking around properly.

He remembered being here yesterday. Hard to think that the simple act of giving his bread to 2 street children had led to this. The avenue was much quieter than yesterday. No market traders around, no children running, whooping and hollering as they played. Compared to yesterday the avenue looked abandoned. Looking around, d'Artagnan could just make out the shadow of faces at the windows lining the street. The people here didn't want a fight. They feared the backlash of the Red Guard, wanted only peace so as to get on with their lives, and were doing the sensible thing of staying away. Although some were brave enough to try and watch from the side lines.

D'Artagnan didn't notice Flea appearing at his side until she spoke. 'Are you sure you're up for this?' She murmured.

'I'm fine.' D'Artagnan reassured her.

Flea shook her head. 'You're far from fine.' She grumbled, laying a hand on his arm. 'You're shaking. This doesn't have to be your fight, you know.'

D'Artagnan spared her a glance. He had a sheen of sweat across his pale face, the glare from the sun causing him to squint, lines of pain visible on his youthful face; if Flea had to guess the ground wasn't feeling very stable beneath his feet. But there was a stubbornness there she had glimpsed earlier, and Flea doubted d'Artagnan knew how to walk away from something he felt was right to do. She couldn't order him to not do this; she could only hope that when she sent for Porthos to come and retrieve d'Artagnan from the Court that it wasn't his body she would be handing over.

The runners had told Flea it was a group of six soldiers marching in their direction, in full uniform, their weaponry on display in an overt attempt to intimidate. She spared one final glance at the pig headed musketeer before turning to the strongest fighters she had picked for the fight. 'Remember, we negotiate first.' Her tone was hard, commanding. She had learnt the hard way how best to appear in charge during such times of conflict. They grumbled, as she expected, but they all nodded. 'You will get to fight.' She added, allowing a slight smile to tug at her lips. 'Have you ever known the Red Guard to negotiate?'

D'Artagnan cleared his throat, sending a half-hearted glare her way though he couldn't find it in himself to argue with her. He turned instead, stepping to spearhead the group, hearing various weapons being readied as he rested an unfamiliar hand on the pommel of his sword. He fought the urge to pull it, swing it again, to get used to the weight and the feel all over again. This wasn't the time to appear anything but ready for the fight that might be before him. He released his right hand from his leather jacket, let it hang by his side. The Red Guard didn't need to know that he was injured. Then again: d'Artagnan resisted the urge to feel the cut and bump on his head; there was no hiding some wounds, he thought.

D'Artagnan wasn't known for his patience at the Musketeers. If there was a fight, most people would pay good money that d'Artagnan would move for first strike. He didn't wait around, didn't usually bother waiting for someone else to make the first move. Flea wouldn't have been surprised if she spoke with said musketeers to find that out; Flea had figured for herself the impatience of the young man. So she was surprised when he stood at the head of their rag tag group of fighters, a specific spot, though not for any reason she could fathom, as still as a statue. She could barely see the movement of his chest as he presumably still breathed. His back was ram rod straight, stood to attention that any captain would be proud to see. She saw the fearless soldier, the injuries a mere afterthought, and allowed herself to wonder if perhaps the day wouldn't end with as much blood shed as she had readied herself for.

MMXV

The Red Guard marched in 2 lines of 3, a foreboding and menacing air to them as they stepped in perfect unison to a beat any soldier recognised. They were big men, battle ready, a little overkill, d'Artagnan considered, for what had happened. D'Artagnan stood his ground, not allowing a flicker of movement across his face as the Red Guard halted mere feet from his position. He had carefully chosen the spot, close to the entrance to the Court, blocked in on one side by the side of a large housing block, trees forming a natural break on his right, hemming the soldiers into a space rather than out in the open of the avenue. It had aided him yesterday, kept the Red Guard from being able to circle him. He had counted on the natural ego of the Red Guard to march right up to his face rather than stay in the relative safety of the larger avenue.

'Musketeer, step aside. This is not your fight.' The blond Red Guard in the centre, tall as Porthos but without the muscle, did his best to intimidate with his natural height advantage by looking down his nose at d'Artagnan. If it didn't cause his right eye to squint slightly, it might have worked better.

'So I've been told. It's not yours either.' D'Artagnan spoke calmly, almost conversational in tone though his posture did not change, his left hand white knuckled on the pommel of his sword.

'A member of the Court of Miracles' the words were spat as if offensive from the man's lips 'killed a Red Guard yesterday. They will be brought here to face justice in a court.'

'And if that member cannot be found?' d'Artagnan queried.

'We will find him by force.'

D'Artagnan openly scoffed at such a notion. He looked over the soldiers, one by one, taking his time to deliberately eye each man, to judge him just with a look. He recognised one at the back, the older musketeer with large jowls stood on the left, sporting an impressive shiner from yesterday's fight. He briefly wondered who of the other 2 had died, but his head was pounding too much to continue to think. He tried to keep the grimace from showing on his face. 'You will need more force than you have here.'

The leader of the pack stepped forward into d'Artagnan's personal space, small droplets of spittle almost making d'Artagnan grimace as they hit his face as the man hissed 'is that a threat?'

D'Artagnan smiled slightly, though there was no warmth to the expression. 'Merely an observation.'

'The man responsible will be brought here within ten minutes.'

'No one is being brought here. The killing was justified.'

'Justified!' The man scoffed. 'Justified he says.' The man looked to his comrades who laughed appropriately at the humour the man found in d'Artagnan's words.

'Yes.' D'Artagnan focused on the words, even as the pounding grew to a distracting buzzing in his ears, and black spots danced threateningly in the corner of his vision. He ignored it as best he could; he didn't have time for the distraction of a head injury. 'Your Red Guard.' He spat the words right back in the man's face 'attacked a musketeer without provocation. The men simply came to my aide.'

The man's eyes swept to d'Artagnan's wound, though he couldn't have failed to spot it already. 'Aaah, did the little musketeer get a sore head.'

D'Artagnan let the insult wash over him, helped by the words sounding increasingly like they were echoing under water towards him. Unconsciousness, though tempting, would probably bring the certainty of death a little closer, but it wouldn't help the Court. D'Artagnan deliberately flexed his right hand, letting the pain of the grinding broken bones ground him once again in the here and now, bringing the Red Guard into sharp relief and quieting the buzzing momentarily.

'You should have stayed away, Musketeer. You should have let the Red Guard get on with their job rather than trying to play hero for 2 street urchins that did not deserve saving. What, you wanted to show off to two children?'

D'Artagnan was forcefully reminded of Mathis's words only a few days earlier though it seemed much longer. He didn't allow his mind to wander there, though, wrenching it back forcefully. 'Your Red Guard comrades were wrong to stop those children; they had not stolen anything. And they were wrong to draw their sword on me. And you are wrong to come down here simply because a member of the Court got the better of one of your men in the fight. Don't make another mistake now.'

'A mistake?' The man still seemed to find much humour in d'Artagnan's words, though his look hardened again. 'We are not the one's making a mistake here, musketeer.' He paused then, seeming to consider d'Artagnan afresh, eyes sweeping to the pauldron snug on his shoulder. 'A musketeer.' He appeared to think on this concept for a while, sharing a smile with the guard on his right. 'Shouldn't be too much problem.' He drew his sword, his comrades instantly following suite, d'Artagnan half a second behind, only a slight hesitation from the unfamiliar feel. 'After all, he's all alone.'

'We're never alone.'

D'Artagnan, with the benefit of a head injury and that all noise at the moment seemed to be coming at him from a vast distance, didn't startle at the familiar voice that rang out around the avenue. All of the Red Guard jumped, though, half of them swinging to the new threat that had appeared at their back. Athos stood, three metres behind, flanked by Aramis and Porthos, all three pulling swords in one singing movement. 'I suggest you leave this place now.' Athos added.

The blond had turned back to d'Artagnan, not about to let the new arrivals split his attention and leave his back open to attack. 'This is not your fight.' He said, loudly enough to be heard. His sword swung fast as lightening in d'Artagnan's direction, d'Artagnan getting his sword up, even though the movement felt lopsided, in time for steel to clash against steel. 'Of course, we wouldn't discourage your involvement.' He added, moving out of the way in time for the Red Guard on his left to swing at d'Artagnan, the unfamiliar hand telling as d'Artagnan struggled to block a move that should have been as natural as breathing. 'Only makes the fight sweeter.'

Words stopped then; Athos, Aramis and Porthos moved forward to engage, splitting the attention of the Red Guard enough to allow a fair fight. Or as fair a fight as anything involving the Red Guard versus the Musketeers could be.

The wiser men from the Court of Miracles stepped back into the shadows, understanding that today, at least, was not their fight, that by some miracle the musketeers were fighting for them. The younger men looked ready to join in but were quelled by a single look from their queen. Forced to watch, they could appreciate that they were watching the masters at work, in a decidedly one sided fight.

The fight caused welcome adrenaline to sing through d'Artagnan's veins, dulling pain, sharpening senses, even allowing him to forget that he held his sword in the wrong hand as he quickly grew used to the movement. It wasn't as natural or graceful as usual, however few of the spectators from the side lines would have guessed that d'Artagnan didn't always fight with his left hand.

He knew it was temporary though; black dots began to once again dance through his vision, drawing air into his lungs seemed a battle all of its own, and the ground was increasingly unsteady beneath his feet. He wondered how much longer he could fight against the two swords slashing in his direction. He did have one advantage compared to yesterday, his increasingly fractured thoughts considered. He didn't have a human limpet pressed into his side, immobilising one of his arms. He had forgotten all about his current immobilised hand, and the distinct disadvantage from that until he used it to smash the blond Red Guard around his smirking lips. He managed not to yell but that was merely because it would have taken air he didn't currently have in his lungs.

It took far longer than it should have to realise he was now only battling one sword, another beat before he realised Athos stood at his side, splitting the attention of the 2 Red Guard he had faced. He did manage to scrape enough conscious thought, and air, together to take the first opening that was gifted him, bringing the pommel of his sword down heavily on the big Red Guards head, dropping him in an instant. He considered it suitable retribution that the Red Guard would have as nasty a scar as he was likely going to be left with.

MMXV

It was over quicker than it had started. Four of the Red Guard soldiers remained on the ground, in various degrees of consciousness, 2 had run for it whilst they could. If d'Artagnan had been able to think it through, he might have worried about the embarrassing defeat they had served the Red Guard, and the likely comeback that they would have to watch for. However, standing, panting through the exertion, and the pain that lanced through his head, all d'Artagnan could feel was relief (and a small amount of surprise) that he had actually survived the encounter.

'You are alive.' Athos stood shoulder to shoulder with him, surveying the Red Guard with him for a moment, before moving around to get a better look at his protégé. D'Artagnan felt the loss, felt the ground shift threatening under foot, and shifted his stance wider to compensate slightly. Athos surveyed him with more intensity than he had spared the Red Guard, whatever he saw making the stoical musketeer wince slightly. 'Though you have looked better.'

'Small disagreement with the Red Guard yesterday.' D'Artagnan answered, sounding off hand though mostly because he was trying to convince his stomach to still and not vomit on Athos's boots. 'They didn't take it well.' He added almost as an afterthought.

Briefly turning as if to remind himself of the Red Guard unconscious on the floor, Athos allowed a small smile to grace his lips. 'They never do.' He looked over at d'Artagnan again. 'Though you could use more practice if you are going to be fighting with your left hand.' He looked up and caught Aramis's eye, beckoning him with a single look. He moved closer, a gentle hand on d'Artagnan's arm, as the musketeer swayed again.

'That is quite the black eye.' Aramis's voice managed to startle d'Artagnan though he stood right in front of him. 'Someone did a very nice job stitching you up, though. Almost as pretty as mine.' He reached up to probe the wound himself, discovering d'Artagnan wasn't so far gone as to ignore his ministrations. Using his right hand in his foggy state, however, to keep Aramis at bay, leached the rest of his face of colour.

Porthos watched the battle with a knowing grin, deciding getting involved would be a little unfair to the youngest of them. He felt the woman settle at his side without looking down at her. 'Flea' He acknowledged after a pause.

'Porthos. I was going to contact you.' Flea didn't mean for that to sound quite so defensive.

Casting a look over the injured man once again, Porthos met her look with a raised eyebrow. 'Before or after he was killed fighting the Red Guard?'

The accusation hit harder than perhaps Porthos intended. Flea straightened to her full height, though it made little difference against Porthos, 'I told him not to fight. Commanded him not to fight.'

To her surprise her words softened Porthos's look almost immediately, and she watched fond exasperation come over his features as he looked once again at d'Artagnan, still trying to batter away Aramis's probing hands from his head wound or his injured hand. 'Yeah, guess that didn't work well.'

Flea relaxed slightly, even smiled. 'He's a stubborn fool.'

Athos obviously overheard judging by the snort at the words. 'Yes he is.' Porthos said fondly.

Athos kept a tight grip on d'Artagnan's arm as he looked over at the queen of the Court of Miracles. The fear and guilt that had held Athos in their grip was quickly turning to relief at finding d'Artagnan alive, although the thought that a few moments later and they would have been too late would come back to haunt him. He was grateful that the Court had seen to it to extend such care to the young man. Flea caught his eye, holding his look, seeming to understand the simple nod of thanks, and the rage of emotion underneath.

A stilted cry from d'Artagnan brought his attention back to the wounded man. Aramis, deciding there was little needing to be done in the middle of the street had settled his hand on d'Artagnan's other arm, right over one of the other injuries from yesterday. Finding the long slit in the leather jacket, Aramis quickly found smaller ones all along the sleeve. 'Any other injuries you want to share?' Athos's dry voice brought d'Artagnan's attention to him, though he winced at the movement.

'How did you get these?' Aramis added.

D'Artagnan didn't have time to answer before Flea jumped in. She had (rightly) guessed that the stubborn man would down play his role in saving the children from yesterday, and fighting off the Red Guard with a child in his arms and quickly filled in the men of the exploits of the young man. D'Artagnan was glad he had been there, and therefore didn't need to pay attention to the words, swaying violently enough that Athos struggled to hold him upright. Seeing this, Flea brought the tale to a swifter close than she would have liked, stepping forward to d'Artagnan. She lay a hand on his cheek as he struggled to focus on her. 'Thank you.' She said simply.

D'Artagnan didn't trust that he could open his mouth at the moment without vomiting on her, so simply nodded, the movement sluggish.

'You fought with honour' Flea spoke with a hitch to her voice 'and loyalty to my people when you didn't have to.' She widened her suddenly tear filled gaze to Athos, Aramis and lastly Porthos. 'And thank you for coming in time.' She added with a watery smile.

They simply nodded and watched as she disappeared back into her kingdom.

MMXV

Treville had been a captain long enough to have lost many soldiers. He was well aware that every time he sent his men out, be it for a simple patrol, guard duty at the palace, or on a select mission, that they might not return. Every soldier was aware of his mortality, and Treville had long since accepted the reality of duty that came with being the Captain.

He couldn't quite contain the relief when three familiar horses returned to the garrison as the midday bells tolled, though it was the fourth man, sharing Athos's horse whom he was most grateful to see. He arrived on the lower floor as Porthos was helping d'Artagnan to dismount, Treville getting his first look at the impressive head injury. 'You are rather late for report, d'Artagnan.' He observed.

'Apologies.' D'Artagnan's voice was soft, and he struggled to look Treville in the eye. 'I was inadvertently detained.' He added with a half-smile that caused a snort of amusement from the captain.

'Looks like you need a visit to the infirmary.' Treville said, noting the hold Porthos and Aramis had on the young man to keep him upright. 'I'll hear your report later.'

D'Artagnan, instead, straightened. 'But I have news to report. Of the killing of the nobleman.'

Treville briefly warred with ordering d'Artagnan to the infirmary, but something in d'Artagnan's tone, and the effort he was putting in to look him in the eye had him nodding instead.

'The son.'

Confused, Treville's look turned questioning. The effort to keep his look on Treville's was waning quickly, and the next words came out in a rush. 'His son was cut out of his inheritance.'

Understanding now, Treville nodded, stepping forward to briefly clasp d'Artagnan's shoulder. 'We will investigate further. Now, infirmary!'

Dismissed, Aramis and Porthos steered d'Artagnan towards the infirmary, Treville and Athos both grinning as d'Artagnan gathered enough energy to complain that he didn't need to go anywhere but his own room, and his own bed. Treville turned a questioning look to his lieutenant. 'The Red Guard were out for blood. It's not the last we will hear from them.'

'A problem for another day.' Treville allowed.

'D'Artagnan will be at the centre of their plans.'

Treville turned a steel gaze on him. 'Divided, they might stand a chance. United, they have none. Don't give them a chance.'

All Athos could do was nod at the wise words, recognising the simplicity and complexity of such a statement.

'In the meantime,' Treville carried on, 'you have the son of a nobleman to investigate.'

Athos glanced around to ensure they weren't overheard before asking 'Mathis?'

'Leave him to me.' Treville's smile turned evil. 'I hear the Red Guard are down a few members and need temporary help with palace security.'

Athos contained his smile as he let a wave of vindictive retribution to roll over him. It wasn't enough, but there was little they could do against a cowardly musketeer that wouldn't end up in trouble. Treville was a wise captain, though, and Athos guessed that retribution would come in other forms than straight out violence. He nodded in understanding and followed his brothers to the infirmary knowing that getting d'Artagnan there, and keeping him there, was a whole other challenge in itself.

 _Author's note:_

 _Thank you for reading this story and I hope you've enjoyed it. I certainly enjoyed writing this fic, the first longer piece of fiction I've written in a while. Probably not the most complex piece you'll read, but I needed something straightforward to get my teeth into as it were; as you've probably guessed my favourite character is d'Artagnan and I wanted to explore his abilities and loyalties a little._

 _I've loved reading all your reviews; like everyone that posts here it means a lot to me to hear what people think of my story and they've been enjoying it, and it's heart-warming to receive notifications of favourites, follows and reviews . Thank you for taking the time to do that._

 _This is not beated, any mistakes are my own._

 _Disclaimer: I do not own anything to do with the Musketeers. I'm simply using the characters for my own enjoyment and make no money from this!_


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